me out of my celibate funk.
It’s not that I’m good at reading people. I’m not. But there’s a subtle air about Trace Savoy, one he tries to stifle. On the surface, he’s too cavalier. Too arrogant and apathetic. It’s a facade. Beneath that callous shell lurks an interested, impassioned, sexual man. I’ve glimpsed it in the creases of his expression, in his heated words, and in the caress of his touch on my face. I want more of it. I need to know if there’s something between us, something that could grow and stretch and take flight.
I search his beautiful face, looking for clues to what he’s thinking and find nothing. “You’re toying with me.”
“Your counteroffer suggests…” He pushes off the wall and in two strides, he puts his face in mine with his hands on the guard rail behind me. “You are toying with me.”
He’s deliberately crowding me. My head doesn’t even reach the knot on his tie, so I have to angle my neck way back to meet his gaze. It’s a position meant to make me feel smaller, more vulnerable. Little does he know, he can’t hurt me. I’ve been hurt—a hurt so mortally, inconsolably excruciating there’s nothing left in me to break.
The elevator dings, and the doors open. He doesn’t move.
And that glare. That hostile, infuriating, sexy goddamn glare makes my thighs clench and my skin heat.
“Maybe I am toying with you.” I want to feel the curve of his scowl, so I give into the indulgence and stroke a finger across his full bottom lip. “What are you going to do about it, Mr. Savoy?”
He flashes me a scathing smile that isn’t a smile at all as it sends chills from my tailbone to my neck. “I’m going to accept your demands.”
Chapter Six
PRESENT
“Accept my demands?” I chase Trace out of the elevator and through the unlit lobby on the 30th floor. “Are you serious?”
His gait is driven and focused as he passes a small sitting area, swerves around a steel reception desk, and vanishes into a dark corridor.
I slam to a halt in the empty lobby, reeling from shock and confusion. Should I leave? Instinct urges me to return to the elevator, because no one in their right mind offers a belly dancer that kind of money, let alone all the benefits I outlined. Did he even read the counteroffer?
Turning toward the window beside a leather couch, I lower onto the cushion and face the glass. In the distance, the St. Louis Arch rises over the banks of the Mississippi River, its curved silver shape like a handle on the twinkling metropolis. Buildings of various heights spread out around it, and among those structures is Gateway Shelter. With its seventy-five beds already occupied, they’ll be turning away homeless people for the rest of the night.
I can’t stop thinking about that as I stare out the window and analyze my feelings. I donate every extra penny to the shelter, which isn’t much. But if I accept this job, if Trace is serious about meeting my ridiculous salary requirements, my God, I could help the shelter expand, add more beds, healthier food, softer blankets. Oh, the possibilities!
I’m getting ahead of myself. Trace is up to something, and it can’t be good.
Would a belly dancer increase the revenue in his casino? Maybe. I saw the crowd gathering downstairs, and that was without my costumes or the fine-dining services he intends to provide.
Am I the best belly dancer in St. Louis? For sure. But he could find a better dancer outside of the city and pay her just enough to relocate.
That leaves me with one conclusion.
He wants me, and his interest is personal.
“Danni!” he bellows from somewhere down the hall. “I’m waiting!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. If I take this job, I’ll have to train him. The Marlo Vogt’s of the world might jump at his grunting, barking, glowering bullshit, but I work for myself and cower to no one.
The question is, do I have a personal interest in him?
I turn my attention to the view outside the window, admire the glimmering reflection of the cityscape on the river, and come to terms with the situation. I’m drawn to him in a way I haven’t been drawn to anyone since Cole.
Trace could be both a job and a solution for my loneliness. Maybe we’ll fuck. Maybe we won’t. What’s the worst that could happen? If it gets complicated, I’ll quit the belly dancing gig and focus on